


Debts

by vestigialwords



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vestigialwords/pseuds/vestigialwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's life is a collection of debts, and the balance does not work out in his favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debts

After the first punch, Steve barely registers the metal fist against his face. He’s vaguely conscious of his lip splitting open on the second hit, fractures spidering through his cheekbones. The copper tang of blood fills his mouth and he pushes it out with his tongue instead of spitting it in defiance, like he would if it were anyone else. His head snaps back against empty air with every blow, and he hopes that each one will be the last—whether it’s the one that finally breaks his neck, or the one that snaps Bucky back into place.

Physical pain is nothing to him, not really, and contrary to popular belief, that has nothing to do with the serum. He spent the first twenty-odd years of his life sucking air and crunching down on muscle cramps, pretending that he didn’t feel constant prickling heat under his skin. He learned how to endure errands with his stomach churning, lungs burning, and a racing heart triggered by nothing more than a short walk down the street or a breath drawn too deeply. He lived most of his life with the muscles in his back aching, weak bones crackling and grinding themselves down at the joints and Bucky holding him as his body fell apart. So this… this is familiar. He can work with this.

His life is a collection of debts, and the balance does not work out in his favor.

There was the bout of pneumonia in 1937 that cost Bucky his job at Old Man Tucker’s shop because he refused to leave Steve’s bedside. Bucky sat up all night with Steve flush against his chest while the chills wracked his body, and changed out a cool cloth on his forehead when the sweats set in. He passed the damn bug to Bucky, who lost ten pounds over two weeks, but still managed to smile through it, reading the papers out loud, voice weakened but cheerful, for the fleeting moments Steve was conscious. He had already recovered before Steve could even sit up in bed, and somehow managed to keep the medicine cabinet stocked and a warm cup of chicken broth by Steve’s bed the entire time.

The bland suppers of rice and beans Bucky forced down his own throat so that Steve could have the scraps of what little meat they could afford—not that it ever stuck to his bones, no matter how much he ate. Or worse, the evenings Bucky insisted he had grabbed dinner on his way home from work or out with a girl so that Steve would eat the leftovers, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by the gurgling of Bucky’s stomach.

For recognizing Steve's proud chest and insistence that _I can get by on my own_ was a blatant lie; Steve couldn’t have scraped together more than two months rent, not to mention food for that long. He made his money selling newspapers like a schoolboy, occasionally hawking his sketches for mere pennies by the pier for well-to-do folk who had too much change in their pockets and not enough generosity in their hearts. Steve’s next best option was the streets and Bucky was kind enough never to mention it.

The countless winter nights when Bucky didn’t sleep a wink before clocking a ten-hour shift at the dockyard, just to watch that Steve’s wheezing lungs kept pulling air in and out.

For following him into battle again and again without hesitation. For never letting him forget how to be that kid from Brooklyn when the world was looking at him to be a Commander. 

For noticing the HYDRA stormtrooper who nearly had a bullet with Steve’s name on it, hiding behind the one wall Steve hadn’t thought to check.

That day in the alley before Bucky shipped off, Steve had seen the opened envelope shoved hastily under Bucky’s pillow that morning and _knew_. He saw the lunk slink into the cinema, and knew from the whispers around town the guy was no good, so maybe that fight was about a little more than protecting the honor of the troops or the dignity of the young woman whose husband had shipped off last week. 

Bucky pulled him out of that too.

But Steve?

Steve couldn’t reach far enough, didn’t move fast enough, couldn't catch him. Failed to save the one man whom he owes his life hundreds of times over. Steve marched into battle instead of mounting a rescue mission, and maybe this is punishment for his recklessness. As the fist crashes down one more time, Steve wonders if there’s some poetic justice in this: Bucky is gone, and the Winter Soldier is here to collect on the debts that Steve can never repay.


End file.
